El Mariachi Muerte,
I pen to you a sonata of shadow— an elegy of our common struggle against the unforgiving tide of time.
Our life’s melodies might differ, but the rhythm of despair and doom binds us.
In your desperate crusade to shield La Musica from the gnashing jaws of oblivion, I see a minstrel’s echo— a lonesome performer in an empty, grand hall. His calloused fingers dance feverishly on strings, birthing a fervent melody that bounces off cold, unresponsive walls.
His tunes echo in the ominous hush, a solitary serenade seeking an audience that is not there, much like your gallant, yet tragically doomed plight.
My path was once shrouded in similar silence.
Deprived of hope, sentenced to an eternity of torment, I existed in the void of Death Row, where there is naught but sorrow. The only escape I had should have silenced me. Yet, from the ashes of my despair rose a symphony—a tear-soaked melody that embraced what I had become.
I invite you to reflect on the silence that is slowly creeping into the once melodious hall of Anthesteria, threatening to extinguish your vibrant Music.
I hear it, do you?
This silence— like the haunting pause between notes of a mournful dirge— foretells your impending doom: the end of your Music. This doom does not solely stem from the war you’ve valiantly waged against Dr. Death, but originates from your inability to perceive its inescapability.
The event horizon has been passed, my friend. How many Mariachi still sing in Anthesteria? How many are left to?
I only hear you.
Your painful dirge symbolizes the requiem of your spirit, the shattering of the guitar that once sang your defiance.
And the silence to follow?
It’s a testament to your failure, as alone and forsaken you become a grotesque symbol of your doomed struggle: a mute minstrel, clutching a voiceless instrument.
Much like your dear Frightengale.
It’s not Death you should have feared, but the ceasing of your song, the obliteration of your identity. You fought Death while courting a more profound demise: the extinction of your music.
When it comes, when silence reigns supreme in place of a once vibrant song, remember my words:
In the grand symphony of life, even silence carries a tune.
Embrace this, Mariachi, accept the inevitability of your silent doom. For it is in this acceptance, in this surrender to the inevitable, that you may find liberation – the final, resonant note in your life’s symphony.
But know this:
When the silence descends and your music is no more, I’ll still be here.
I will weave your lesson into my sermons, your agony into my teachings. Each echo of your silent struggle will serve as a testament to the conquering power of pain, the fatal silence of denial.
The last trace of you will live within my words, your existence slowly dissolving into a mere whisper.
In this way, you will have eternal life— a ghost of the Music that once ruled Anthesteria.
Remember, my friend: what I do, I do for you.
In pain,
GRIMSKULL